


sasquatch and tokoloshe

by orphan_account



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: Frottage, Hate Sex, M/M, mildly dislike sex, or uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Le Clos is still a punk, and Mike is still not having it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sasquatch and tokoloshe

**Author's Note:**

> archiveofourown.org/works/7719463 read this first

He looks.

Mike doesn't see that til the replay three hours later, in his room. He has a bottle of advocaat, pilfered from the Dutch gymnast, and the Dutch guy himself, collected politely on top of a tarp. He's still alive. Mike considers him. Sort of. He's mixing them half and half in an official Rio 2016 coffee mug. He has this weird hiccupy feeling in his chest; he had it on the podium, stinging his eyes. Which, like, that's fucking dumb. He picked up number twenty there and number twenty-one a little later and there's gonna be another one tomorrow. It's just a hobby. It's just a hobby. He's had other hobbies, over the years. They all get boring after a while. Ain't like this one is too intellectually taxing.

He pulls the bar back on the Youtube video. It hesitates on the Village's shitty WiFi and then gives him what he asks for. Le Clos looks over. And then he loses.

Mike shouldn't care. It gives him a little thrill anyway. Le Clos can't get the fucking first rule of sports right. Focus. Focus on what you're doing. You're responsible for what you do, and nothing else.

He needs to sleep tonight. He had the gymnast last night as a replacement. It's weird, you know, gymnast, you expect some twiggy little prick with muscles in the wrong place just out of high school, but this guy was - is - an adult. Mike thought he'd be all limp and passive but turns out losing a shot to compete 'cause of your own stupidity makes a man pissed off enough to lash out. Mike didn't break a sweat, of course, but he was startled for a minute. For a minute. And now the guy's been pickling in front of the air conditioner all day, his lips parted just slightly, with it just enough to lift a useless hand when Mike's shadow falls on him. He looks like Lochte after the incident in 2012, except he's not going to get back up. Mike sits down on the garbage bags with him and picks up his wrist and the guy's red eyes blink as the advocaat blooms orange.

Mike sits there, drinking and pulling the bar back on the YouTube video. Le Clos looks. Le Clos looks. Le Clos loses.

He expects the knock. Has been expecting it, for hours. "'S open," he calls. Le Clos nudges the door but he can't step over the threshhold til Mike says and Mike lets him stew for a good minute before he shrugs and sips his curdling advocaat. "Come in."

Le Clos shimmies in. He has laughing eyes but he's pissed off. He's not going to get straight to the point, though. He kicks the tarp. "You bogarted my gymnast, bra."

Mike shrugs. "What can I say? I beat you."

Le Clos' face twists, but he's keeping it cool. "You didn't want a date."

"You can't do shit by yourself," Mike yawns. "You're like a fucking baby, Le Clos. Something shiny's in the way and you either try to piss it off or go chasing after it. You lost interest and I saw a vaccuum. I didn't bogart shit. You let it go."

That's quite obviously not about the gymnast. Le Clos has about the insult tolerance of a fucking flea. Mike's not startled; he's on his feet before Le Clos' punch can connect, holding him by the wrist and grinding the bones. Le Clos stares at him. Mouth open, tongue lolling out, like a dog. Mike's not a fan of dogs. Mike shakes him. "Chill with the - whatever the fuck this is. It's the Olympics. It ain't just about you. I bet you pissed off your entire country. I bet you're gonna get off the plane home and have to hide out the rest of your miserable existence in a cave."

Le Clos scowls. "I can go somewhere else."

"No, you can't." Mike's tried that. Post-1970, it ain't work. Too many things to delete: credit card, social security number, rent, and now endorsements and TV deals. Someone's gonna spot him if he gets bored and tries to lay low in, like...wherever. Idaho, maybe. "You get to go home in shame. You know why?" He squeezes, so the bones in Le Clos' wrist fucking creak. "'Cause you can't take your eyes off of me. It's cute."

He expects an argument. Le Clos likes to argue and he likes being annoying and he likes fighting. That's the whole deal, he likes fighting. Well, not fighting. Playing. He likes getting dirty and bloody and it's the good thing Mike nabbed the gymnast before Le Clos had a chance because Le Clos would have done something stupid like string him out like a cat plays with a baby bird and let him go to catch him again and the gymnast would have bolted and found someone and there'd be a huge scandal, pride of South Africa caught torturing a disgraced athlete, something in the water over there. Heh, in the water. But Le Clos shrugs. "Yeah," he says. His eyebrows go up. "It is cute. It's meant to be cute. You said it's cute?"

Mike rolls his eyes.

Le Clos kisses him. Mike goes along with it. He needs to tire himself out so he'll sleep tonight. They crash on the floor. Le Clos has on bike shorts and a hoodie with nothing underneath. Mike pulls it off him, eliciting a grunt when the zipper catches on Le Clos' face. Mike would like to fuck him, drive the point home, losing, concentrating, whatever, but he's not in the mood to spend the time convincing him. They just grope like stupid teenagers. Le Clos yelps when he gets his shorts ripped off and in retaliation tears at the sleeve of Mike's bathrobe. He wants to kiss Mike again but Mike's not really into that, at least not with this punk kid. If he wanted understanding and someone to moon about eternity and sports and contradictions, he'd bother Oksana Chusovitina. Not that Oxy-Clean is on the same wavelength; she only got her change last year. But she's an adult, which Le Clos hasn't achieved yet.

They do fight a little. Get up on their feet and pretend to slam each other around. Mike trips on the silent, watchful gymnast and Le Clos laughs instead of taking advantage and Mike gets him on the floor. Le Clos wants his dick sucked, makes some noises to the tune of it, but he isn't getting that. Mike's lazy and a jerk so he sets it up so he's on his back on the floor chilling out and Le Clos is whimpering and humping his leg and biting his lip. Easy. Mike closes his hand around both their cocks and Le Clos ruts up into him and says "Fuck" and pops off on him. On him, gross, so Mike tries to aim but it just goes back on his belly. Whatever. That was all right. Nothing to write home about but all right. Mike stretches and uses Le Clos' hoodie to wipe off the jizz.

Le Clos lies there, breathing hard. He shouldn't be breathing hard. Mike palms his chest and frowns. "Stick your tongue out."

Le Clos does. Underside's still white. Mike chucks his chin. "Eat, asshole."

Le Clos is gonna say something cute like _You stole my lunch._ Mike rolls over and grabs the coffee mug of advocaat and jabs it at him. Le Clos frowns. "I don't do alcohol."

"Then just eat, asshole." Mike picks up the gymnast's wrist. He bubbles and is quiet.

"Aw," Le Clos coos. "You're sharing a meal. You must like me."

"Eat, asshole, or the next thing you're eating is my asshole."

"Gross, bra," Le Clos says, but he takes the proffered wrist and takes a drink. He's trying to be cool, trying to be funny, like, oooh, I got you to fuck me after all, I got to get the gymnast after all, but his tongue is too pale and he's eating too fast. Whatever little light was there in the gymnast's eyes has faded by the time he's done. The dude is dessicated. Le Clos belches. He wipes his brown mouth, catches Mike's eye, makes a chk-chk noise like a horse. "Another round?"

"I need to sleep." Mike says.

Le Clos is disappointed and he whines about it but Mike's not moved. Mike, at the door, says "Focus" and Le Clos says "I need an incentive. I need some help. Let's make a deal. If I medal, you suck my dick."

"Get out," Mike says.

Le Clos gets out, cuddling his hoodie like a fucking security blanket. Gross. Obvious. Mike prods the gymnast with his toe. It's fucking arctic in here, he'll keep for a bit. Mike can completely dessicate him tomorrow morning, before he has to get in the pool. He'll invite Oxy over. Or Le Clos. Mike might acquiesce to that deal. Le Clos can be very tit for tat, he can be encouraged to make deals that don't favor him in the outcome. He's stupid. Showoff. Like Lochte except even dumber, in some respects, and that's a hard thing to do.

Mike finds his coffee mug of oranged-up advocaat. Pulls his laptop back closer. Drags the bar back, again and again. Le Clos keeps looking at him. He can keep doing that. Mike'll reap the rewards.


End file.
